At the end of the day of walking through the mission district and chasing the pink bag, I was parched and stopped at the Whiz Burger joint next to a old church, old for California anyway. And there, sitting at one of the picnic tables was Leamae Katrina. He was patiently sorting out a few of his clothes, picking some lint from a sweater.
I fell into conversation with him, first asking if he'd gotten sun burned, then where he was from then where he'd gotten those blue eyes of his.
Eyes from the sky, like bird eggs.
Found playing marbles, picked them up.
Then, the ask: Can I take your picture?
Sure, sent it general delivery: Poste Restante, San Francisco.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
I'm in SF at a conference put on my the society for arts and health care this week. I made a detour to visit the Mission district, recommended by a friend. In search of murals, found myself watching this pink plastic bag floating down the street. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was chasing it all over town. It was like the number pi, nudging always nudging a sluggish eternity to continue.